


where do we go from here?

by writerwren



Series: where do we go from here? [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Office, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Night Stands, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, assistant!Hermione, boss!Remus, they hook up at the office new year's party, things don't really go according to plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerwren/pseuds/writerwren
Summary: Fuck.That was the first thing Hermione thought when she saw those two little pink lines.Fuck.This was not how this was supposed to happen. She was not supposed to be single, she was not supposed to be barely two years into her career, and the father of her unborn child was definitely not supposed to be her 45-year-old boss.Fuck fuck fuck.*rated mature for language and mentions of sex*
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Remus Lupin
Series: where do we go from here? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004151
Comments: 29
Kudos: 203





	where do we go from here?

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling some writer's block with Dixie Pixie Creamery, so this happened! Hope you enjoy :)

_Fuck._

That was the first thing Hermione thought when she saw those two little pink lines.

_Fuck._

This was not how this was supposed to happen. She was not supposed to be single, she was not supposed to be barely two years into her career, and the father of her unborn child was _definitely_ not supposed to be her 45-year-old boss.

_Fuck fuck fuck_.

///

The morning after the company New Year’s Eve party had brought cloudy memories and a potent hangover. Also, a distinct lack of clothing and a toned forearm slung over her waist. One look at the owner of said forearm and the clouds instantly evaporated from her mind.

Alcohol. Fireworks. Her black dress discarded on the floor.

As her eyes adjusted to the morning light streaming through the tall windows, Hermione assessed how exactly she was going to be able to remove herself from the (admittedly, very comforting) embrace Remus held her in without waking him up. Not that she actually wanted to leave. No, Hermione would much rather stay beneath Remus’ pile of blankets and have a repeat of last night’s… activities. But Hermione’s judgement was no longer impaired by multiple martinis, and she knew the best way to salvage any aspect of normalcy at her job was to…

“Good morning,” said a voice next to her, raspy with sleep.

_Crap_.

Hermione scrunched her eyebrows together, displeased that her plan of sneaking out was so quickly foiled. She rolled over to face him, deciding the next best course of action was to be upfront and end this before it got out of hand. “Last night was great,” Hermione said to a clearly still half-asleep Remus. “But it was a one-time thing and it cannot happen again, because if I’m going to achieve any kind of success in this field, I can’t have people thinking it’s because I’m sleeping with my boss. Are we clear?”

Remus paused a moment, seemingly a bit more awake. “Yeah.”

Hermione faltered. “Yeah?” _Just like that?_

“Understood,” he said, nodding.

Hermione scrunched her eyebrows again, confused by how readily he was accepting what she was saying. And a little offended, if she was being honest. “Really? That’s it? You’re not even gonna argue a little bit?”

“Well, I’ve found, over the past two years, that arguing with you is almost always a losing battle, so, no, I don’t think I will.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Arguing with me is always a losing battle. But that’s not the point. Are you saying last night wasn’t good? You don’t even care what happens now?”

Remus smiled at her like he knew a secret about her that she didn’t. “Oh, Hermione. You are rarely wrong about anything, but I’m afraid this is one of those times that you are so very, very wrong.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow as if to say, _Go on._

“Last night was _very_ good,” Remus continued, running a hand down Hermione’s bare back. “Good times four, if you know what I mean.” Hermione suppressed a smile, feeling heat rise to her cheeks; she knew _exactly_ what he meant. “But I would hate to jeopardize your career, because you’re the brightest person I’ve met in a very long time. And if you don’t have my job in ten years, just kill me and take it, because it’s what you’re meant to do.” Hermione wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. “I don’t want to be the one to stand in the way of that.”

Hermione felt her heart break a little. There was a reason she was so attracted to him, and this was it: he was so unbelievably kind that it almost hurt. All she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and never let go. She settled for resting her hand on his shoulder.

Remus pressed his hand flat dangerously low on her back. “So as much as I really, _really_ want to fuck your brains out right now,” he said, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, “I’m with you. Whatever you want to do.”

She took a shuddering breath. “Well, good, because otherwise, I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from jumping you every time I saw you.”

A grin broke out across his face. That grin melted her heart. For a moment, she forgot that he was the CFO of a billion-dollar company; she only saw the man who challenged his coworkers to bubblegum-blowing competitions and cut the crusts off of his PB&J sandwiches.

“What?” asked Hermione, unable to help the grin that grew on her lips.

“Do you want breakfast? I make a mean omelet.”

///

_Fuck._

It was as if Hermione’s 26 years of knowledge and learning were wiped from her mind and only one word was left in her memory.

She stared at the white piece of plastic in her hands, her knuckles nearly matching it in color from how hard she was gripping it. She could almost feel her heartbeat come to a stop, yet it pounded in her ears, echoing and overwhelming. All the while, her newfound mantra played on a loop in her head: _fuck fuck fuck._ It sounded like some new-age Swedish hip hop anthem.

Hermione attempted to draw forth some sort of emotion, _any_ emotion, to try and figure out her reaction. She searched for any hint of sadness, anger, maybe even joy. But she came up dry. Her mind was wiped clear, and all that remained was the overwhelming, earth-shattering, nothing-will-be-the-same kind of change.

Well, there was something else: fear.

“Hermione,” came a loud voice from the bathroom door, accompanied by a banging fist. “Can you hurry up? I need to pee.”

Ron. Hermione snapped out of her trance and looked frantically around the small bathroom as if the toothbrush holder or the framed photo above the toilet would somehow tell her what to do.

“Really bad.”

Should she tell them? It was after 5:00, so Harry and Ginny would be home by now, too. She could just tell them all in one go. Or should she wait? After all, she didn’t know what she wanted to do yet. She’d had this news for all of 60 seconds; not exactly enough time to make a major life decision. Maybe talking to them would help her figure out what to do. Or maybe their opinions would influence her too much and she would end up doing something she didn’t really want to do.

It was a tornado of back and forth in Hermione’s head, and Ron’s knocking only got louder.

_Curse Ron and his tiny bladder._

Before she could really decide one way or the other, Hermione whipped around and flung open the door. The intensity in her face must have caught Ron off-guard, because he seemed to forget his bladder issues and froze in place.

“Hermione,” he asked warily. “Are you okay?”

_Gut instinct. Don’t think, act. Decide._

“I’m pregnant,” Hermione said firmly to her best friend of 15 years.

And promptly burst into tears.

///

Walking into work oftentimes summoned butterflies in her stomach. The excited kind, like when she stumbled upon a new bookstore or discovered a website on one of her obscure interests. Hermione loved her job. Really, truly loved it. Her friends and her parents had questioned her desire to apply for (and then accept) a job as an assistant after finishing her master’s degree. And, true, she didn’t see it being her job forever. But she knew how lucky she was to have landed any sort of position at Dumbledore Tech Enterprises, especially since the company was known to almost exclusively promote internally. For Hermione, a job as Remus Lupin’s assistant would be the start of a long and prosperous career in the field of finance.

Well, that was the plan, until she’d let alcohol and desire cloud her judgement and ended up pregnant. She could just about kiss her career goodbye.

Hermione pushed the thought out of her mind, because thinking about it any more would send her on a long downward spiral. Today, she just needed to tell Remus. That’s what she had decided, so she was sticking with it.

Talking to her friends had proven to be very helpful, after they had all cried on the sofa a bit.

“Do you want to keep it?” Ginny had asked. “Do you want an abortion?”

“I don’t want an abortion,” Hermione had said quietly. _Want to keep it_ felt like a bit of a stretch at the moment, though. “You know I’m pro-choice, but I… I just don’t think I can.”

As she stepped into the elevator, the fluttering in her stomach intensifying, Hermione still wasn’t sure about how she felt. Granted, it had only been four days since she found out about the thing growing inside of her. Yet Hermione still felt like she had failed the first test of motherhood: wanting her child. And it wasn’t like she absolutely didn’t want it, but most of her still felt uncertain. It felt like a failure.

How could she not automatically want her child?

_Her_ child. That would take some getting used to.

Hermione’s mind switched back to Remus. The more she thought about it, the clearer it became to her what her real fear was. More than losing her job, more than the uncertainty of the future, she was scared that Remus would hate her. The nightmare played in a loop in her mind: she utters those two words and his face transforms into a painting of disgust and rage. Or, maybe even worse than that, quiet resentment masked in a veil of obligation. She wasn’t sure how she’d cope with that. It was almost ridiculous to her how much this man meant to her after only a few years of knowing him. It terrified her to think that the relationship they had developed could disintegrate in an instant.

So why was she forcing herself to do this? Why tell him at all? She certainly didn’t _need_ to. She could claim she got knocked up from some other one-night-stand. Or she could find another job and never speak to Remus again. Both would likely result in less hurt in the long run than watching his gaze turn foul as he’s unable to meet her eyes. So why was she doing this?

That was the truly fearsome thing. A small glimmer of hope stayed firm in her chest. Hope that he wouldn’t hate her. Hope that he would do the _opposite_ of hate her.

Hope that he would want this child.

The elevator dinged, and Hermione took a shaky breath. She made her way over to her desk outside Remus’ office, pausing to say hello to Bill and Sirius on the way. Peeking through his open door, she saw that his desk chair sat empty. That came as no surprise to Hermione, since Remus rarely arrived before 9:00. The sense of routine, of normalcy, calmed some of Hermione’s nerves. She set her bag down at her desk and began organizing some things for Remus’ morning meetings, distracting herself while waiting for him to arrive.

“Ah, my dear Hermione, what a lovely day it is outside.” Hermione didn’t hear Remus approaching and jolted in her chair at his voice. “Jumpy, are we?”

Hermione steadied herself. Glancing out the window, she frowned. “It’s raining, Remus.”

“I know,” he chirped. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Hermione forced herself to look Remus in the eyes. Her fears evaporated. (Well, some of them, at least.) How could she believe this man could have the capacity to hate her simply for being pregnant? Did she really not trust him more than that? In all their late-night chats at his desk and lunch breaks at Hermione’s favorite sandwich place, Hermione had learned one thing above all else: Remus Lupin was the definition of a good and kind man. She didn’t really believe he would cast her out.

Didn’t _want_ to believe it, anyway.

Remus perched on the corner of Hermione’s desk, as he so often did first thing in the morning. They had developed quite a nice morning routine, if Hermione did say so herself. Remus arrived and sat on Hermione’s desk. She gave him a stack of reports to look through. He gave her coffee and talked her ear off about some mundane thing or another, like his new favorite podcast or the cute dog he saw outside the building. She allowed herself a few minutes of chatter before she forced herself to actually do her job, which usually involved forcing Remus to do _his_ job.

This morning, however, Remus sat on the edge of her desk wearing a dripping trench coat that threatened to soak many important financial documents. “Remus,” Hermione said sternly. “Up.”

“But, Hermione,” Remus complained, standing and shuffling to the front of Hermione’s desk, “I need to tell you about the funny thing Sirius just said to me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile. “Oh, just give me that,” she said, reaching out for the Starbucks cup in his hand.

She was about to take a sip until she remembered: _Coffee. Baby. Damn it._ Remus must have noticed her falter. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Hermione replied as nonchalantly as she could. She settled for warming her hands with the hot drink, hoping it wasn’t painfully obvious that she wasn’t drinking the beverage that he had brought her every morning for two years. “Actually,” she said, attempting to change the subject, “I was hoping… well, I was wondering if…”

She trailed off. Remus raised an eyebrow.

_Come on, just invite him over. You don’t have to tell him now, just ask him to come over later. Don’t think about how you’ll actually have to_ tell _him later._

Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Remus, would you be able to–”

The phone rang. Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or relieved. 

“Hello, Remus Lupin’s office,” she answered. Remus disappeared into his office. “He has a meeting at 2:00 today. Would 2:30 work? Great, thanks.” She hung up and added the new appointment to the calendar. “Re, you’ve got 2:30 with Ted from First United.”

Remus groaned as he came back out to her desk, trench coat abandoned.

_He probably didn’t hang it up properly and now it’s going to drip all over his chair_ , Hermione thought. She’d have to fix that while he was at his first meeting.

“Not Ted,” Remus complained. “He tells me the same sad story about his childhood poodle every single time I see him. I think it’s supposed to be funny, but it’s really just sad. Makes me feel all funky for the rest of the day. Do I have to go?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t cancel?”

“No.”

“And what do I pay you for, again?”

“Mmm,” Hermione hummed, “Not sure. Haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“Ah, sounds about right.” He turned to go back to his office, and Hermione thought she had missed her window. But then he turned back around and said, “Oh, you wanted to… ask me something?”

Hermione swallowed. “Um, yeah. I was wondering if you’d be able to come over to my place later, after work? There’s, um, something I wanted to talk to you about.” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

A slow smile spread on Remus’ face. “Yeah, of course. Sounds good. Does 7:00 work?”

She nodded, attempting a smile so he wouldn’t be worried that it was bad news. _Was_ it bad news? “Yup, perfect.” She cleared her throat, turning to her computer. “You have 9:15 with Albus,” she called.

///

Hermione knew she was lucky. She was healthy, had a great job, great friends, great parents. Her apartment may have been slightly crowded, seeing that there were two bedrooms and four occupants, but it had a view of Lake Union that was worth any amount of bathroom crowding. Most people would also count a baby as a lucky thing, she knew. She hoped she would feel that way, too, someday.

The apartment was quiet in a way that was deafening. The absence of sound amplified the thoughts swimming in her head. Harry, Ron, and Ginny had left a few minutes earlier to meet Neville and Luna at some bar, whispering a hopeful “Good luck” as they departed. All there was left to do was wait. And think. And worry.

A knock.

Hermione braced herself, hand on the doorknob. She turned it slowly. Remus stood before her, his cheeriness a stark contrast to her palpable fear. “Hey,” Hermione said, attempting to shield her anxieties. She opened her arms to embrace Remus, the warmth of his hands against her back a welcome comfort. “Thanks for coming.”

Remus pressed a light kiss to her cheek, a gesture that had become so normal over the past couple of years, but that still made Hermione’s heart flutter without fail. “Of course. Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

She smiled as she pulled away, gesturing for him to come inside. He hung his coat up — properly, this time, on a hook — and settled on one of the stools at the counter. Hermione faced him from the opposite side of the kitchen island, trying to piece together the right words to say.

Remus had been to her apartment a handful of times by now. There was the time he brought her flowers when her mother was in the hospital. And the time he dropped off her birthday present when he’d forgotten to bring to work. Hermione liked being in her apartment with him. It felt… right. It felt warm. Safe.

“So,” Remus said, caution tinging his voice. “What did you want to talk about?”

She ran her hands over the countertop, distracting herself from the inevitable. _You asked him to come here to talk,_ she thought bitterly. _That means you have to actually_ talk _._ She cleared her throat, readying herself to talk, then stopped. What exactly is the right way to tell your boss, who you may or may not be in love with, that you’re pregnant from the time you drunkenly hooked up with each other? _Is_ there a right way?

“Hermione?” Remus’ eyes were filled with concern. “Should I be worried?”

Hermione wanted to laugh. “No. Well… I…” She paused and took a deep breath, forcing herself to make eye contact. “You remember New Year’s Eve?”

Remus’ lips twitched. “Yeah, of course.

_Deep breaths. Focus. Quick and easy._

“So– I mean, that was a great night, obviously. We both agree on that. And then we decided not to continue… that it would be a one-time thing, for good reason, and I think that was a good decision. But then there are problems that arise when it can’t be a one-time thing, or, rather, when it isn’t such an isolated incident. Because it was a conscious decision that we made, a drunk one, but a conscious one. And decisions have consequences. And a potential consequence of that night, of the thing we did… Well, I guess what I’m trying to say…” Hermione felt out of breath. “I’m pregnant.”

So much for quick and easy.

Remus stared at her, eyes wide. “Okay, that’s got to be some kind of world record for fastest speaking. I mean, really, that was–”

“Remus.” It came out as a whisper; she hated how broken it sounded. She felt the beginnings of tears building in her throat.

He nodded slightly. “You’re pregnant,” he breathed.

“Yeah.”

“And I’m the father.”

“Yeah.”

A silence grew in the room that Hermione almost couldn’t bear. Who knew the absence of words could feel so torturous?

A deep sigh came from Remus. “Wow.” His eyebrows furrowed again. “But I thought we were… careful…”

Hermione rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her hair. “I mean, yes, I remember a condom being involved _somehow_. But we were also really drunk. Like, bordering on the edge of alcohol poisoning drunk. So I don’t know how effective our ‘precautions’ really were.”

“And you’re not on the pill or anything?”

“I mean, I have no reason to be. Well, I didn’t have any reason to be until one night about six weeks ago, but I didn’t think I’d have to worry about that. Guess I was wrong.”

Remus nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so… I don’t know, I guess I just wasn’t… expecting this.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Hermione remarked humorlessly.

The silence descended again. Hermione braced herself for questions. It certainly wasn’t as if she had anything to ask him. The two ends of the spectrum of questions Hermione could ask Remus were _What did you have for dinner?_ and _What color do you want to paint the nursery?_ Neither seemed quite appropriate in the current situation.

“I assume you’re keeping it, since you’re telling me?” Remus asked.

She paused. “I’m not getting an abortion.” Again, an evasion of the question.

“So, adoption?” he asked tentatively.

Hermione’s eyes darted around the room, suddenly feeling suffocated by the focus of his gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe? Probably not. I just… don’t know.” Remus nodded, but said nothing. “I mean, I’m 26. This isn’t how I imagined this happening at all, but I don’t know if I can just… I don’t know.”

A tightness bloomed in her chest, constricting and consuming. The uncertainty of every little thing, every decision she would have to make in the next few months, hell, the next few _days_ , seemed to surround her and compress her from every angle.

_What do I do?_

_What do I do?_

_What do I do?_

Remus seemed to sense the shift. “How did you imagine it?”

Hermione met his gaze again, hating the wetness in her eyes but thankful for the way his eyes seemed to embrace her without even touching her. “What?”

“You said this isn’t how you imagined it happening,” he continued, “So… how did you imagine it?”

She exhaled; almost a laugh, but not quite. She smiled, though. That was something. “Well, I’d be married, for one.”

Remus paled, eyes widened. He smacked himself on the forehead, eyebrows scrunching together. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Hermione, I’m so sorry. I should have– do you want–?”

Hermione let out a sharp laugh; a real one, this time. “Remus Lupin, don’t you _dare_ propose to me in my kitchen right now.” She felt some of the tension release from her shoulders.

“Oh.” He paused, then laughed. “I’m sorry, I just thought…”

“Yeah, I know.” A soft smile grew on her lips. “And I appreciate the gesture, but the last thing I want is for you to marry me out of obligation or pity or some antiquated ideal of what a family is.”

Hermione’s mind flashed to the idea of marrying Remus for real, out of something not related to the fetus growing inside of her. For love. She pushed the thought out of her mind. That was neither here nor there, so it wasn’t worth dwelling on it.

“I’d be married, mid-thirties, established career. We’d both take some time off when the baby was born, and when I went back to work, I’d be like some magic super-mom.” She laughed and wiped a stray tear that had fallen on her cheek. There was something strangely comforting, and heartbreaking, to tell someone else her secret dreams of motherhood. “I would know exactly the right balance and do all the right things and be the best mom possible.” Her voice broke, and Hermione felt a few more droplets land on her cheeks.

Remus stepped around the counter to wipe her cheek, cupping her face with his hand. “You are going to be the best mom, Hermione,” he said softly. He seemed to come to a realization, and his voice had a new intensity in it. “Holy hell, Hermione. You?” He shook his head. “The _best_ mom. Not even a question.” Her heart fractured at the sincerity in his voice. She reached her hand up to cover his, and she pressed a kiss to the inside of his palm. She allowed herself to close her eyes, to breathe, to exist only in that moment.

She realized something he had said earlier. “Also, I would tell you even if I was getting an abortion, by the way. I feel like you would have a right to know, either way.”

Remus sighed deeply, eyebrows knitted together. He pulled his hand away from her cheek and grasped her own, pulling it to his lips to press his own kiss inside of her palm. Interlocking their fingers, he held her hand tightly, as if trapping their affection would protect them from the outside world.

Hermione’s heart seemed to stand still. She wondered for a moment if perhaps everything would be okay after all. Raindrops hit the window, interrupting her thoughts. A storm was coming, an intensified sequel to the morning’s showers. Hermione tried not to read too much into it. She was never one for superstition, anyway.

Remus stepped back and leaned against the counter across from her, folding his arms across his chest. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed. He truly was the most beautiful person Hermione had ever known. The flickering light from her pine-scented candle outlined the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the deep shadows a contrast to the softness of his eyelashes, which fluttered imperceptibly as his eyes moved beneath his lids. His lips held a gentle slope and always seemed to be some degree of chapped, even in the middle of summer. Hermione remembered the way those chapped lips had felt against the bare skin of her neck, her shoulder, her hip.

Remus opened his eyes and met hers; green met brown. It sent a chill down her back.

“You look really beautiful today, by the way,” he said.

Hermione squinted and folded her arms across her chest, wondering if he had been reading her mind. “Are you just saying that because you knocked up your 26-year-old assistant and now you have some sort of guilt complex?”

“No,” he replied. He seemed to consider what she said. “Should I have some sort of guilt complex?”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to feel guilty. “No, of course not,” she said softly. Almost subconsciously, she stepped toward him and brushed her hand down his arm, interlocking his fingers with hers. “I was joking.” Hermione hated to think that Remus, the sweetest, most genuine man in the world, could feel that he was responsible for some terrible, life-ruining thing. She wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about this baby yet, but she knew that nothing involving Remus could be life-ruining.

“Okay,” Remus said, just as softly. Hermione internally reprimanded herself: _selfish selfish selfish_. Of course Remus would feel guilty about this. This was the man who blamed himself for his friends’ deaths and still wasn’t over the time he forgot to bring balloons for Arthur’s 54th birthday. Hermione wanted to reassure him that this wasn’t his fault, though, of course, it sort of was. And maybe it would be easier to reassure him if she could convince him that she was happy about this, but she wasn’t sure she could.

“Thank you,” she said instead. “For saying I’m beautiful.”

Remus glanced down, though she could see the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips. He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “Well, I wish I could say it more often, but right now will have to do.”

Hermione couldn’t help it: she snorted. Remus’ eyes snapped to hers again. “I’m sorry, but why exactly can’t you say it more often? I certainly wouldn’t object.”

A smile. “Because every time I want to say it I also want to do this.” He lifted one hand to cup her cheek and settled the other on her hip, drawing her closer to him. His lips pressed to hers, a burst of flames heating up the chilled February air. Hermione hummed happily and rested her hands against his chest. Remus pulled away, and Hermione nearly verbally protested. “And I can’t exactly do that at work every day.”

Hermione leaned forward again and recaptured his lips. She gripped the collar of his shirt and his hand snaked into her hair as their lips danced. After a moment, he drifted away from her mouth and pressed feather-light kisses up her cheek, down her jawbone, into the crook of her neck. He rested his forehead against hers, and they simply breathed each other in, chests rising and falling in sync. Hermione moved to lay her head on his chest, and Remus wrapped his arms around her tightly, as if to protect her from the inevitable. She listened to his heartbeat, waiting for the moments when it lined up perfectly with hers.

“I still think about that night, you know,” he said after a long silence.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “Me, too.”

How many times had she relived that night in her head? How many times had she recalled the feeling of his lips on hers or the weight of his hands on her thighs? Certainly too many to count.

A martini in her hand. Dance music reverberating through her veins. Her black sequin dress clinging to her thighs, the perfect combination of classy and slutty for impressing someone at a work party. But who exactly was she trying to impress? It was a subconscious effort to doll herself up and use her good eyeliner until she met his eyes for the first time that night and remembered, _Oh yeah, that’s why._ He’s _why_.

Fucking Remus Lupin. Why did he have to stand there like that, all tall dark and handsome in the low light of the party, his green eyes shining like a beacon in the night? And his lips. Hermione didn’t really know what made lips “kissable,” but whatever the criteria, Remus met it.

_And he’s your boss_ , Hermione reminded herself for what felt like the millionth time. _He’s your boss. You’re his assistant. Nothing can happen_.

So why did it feel inevitable? The way his eyes roamed her face while he spoke to her that night, like they were unknowingly searching for something. The spark that ignited in her belly when he asked if she wanted to find somewhere quiet, away from the chaos of the party. The heaviness that hung in the air as they sat on the roof together while the seconds counted down to the new year.

“I’ve never had someone to kiss at midnight,” Hermione had said, with only the night sky to eavesdrop on their conversation. She didn’t know what had suddenly given her the courage to be so bold. So personal. Maybe the weight of the dark tricked her mind into ignoring the consequences of her words. Also, the alcohol.

“No?” Remus replied. His tone was casual, but Hermione noticed a shift in his eyes. A shift to what, she wasn’t quite sure.

“No,” she said simply. “Is it everything it’s cracked up to be?”

At that moment, fireworks exploded in the distance, signaling an end to the countdown and a start to a new year. Hermione turned to gaze at the spectacle of bright color against the background of midnight, but Remus’ eyes stayed on her.

“Let’s find out.” He said it so softly, a whisper nearly drowned out by the cracking of fireworks, that Hermione was hardly sure he had said it at all.

Her eyes locked on his again. Those green, green eyes. She searched for humor in them, any hint of a joke that would indicate he was messing with her. She couldn’t imagine that he would joke about something like that, considering that he was her boss and she was his assistant and it was very, _very_ much against the rules. But she couldn’t imagine that he was serious, either. Remus, who was her boss. Remus, who held a PhD from Harvard and was the CFO of Dumbledore Tech Enterprises. Remus, who looked so achingly beautiful with moonlight weaving through his hair and the faintest shadow of stubble scattered across his jaw.

She wondered if he knew how much she wanted him. She wondered if he had always known.

She wondered if he wanted her too.

Hermione didn’t realize she had been leaning in until she felt a pair of surprisingly soft lips graze her own, and all thoughts about work and age and right and wrong evaporated from her mind. The kiss was gentle, like they were both afraid of spooking the other. Hermione wanted to assure Remus that there was about nothing that would make her run from him at that moment. For just an instant, the screams of Hermione’s rational brain that kissing her boss at a work party was about the worst possible decision she could make just faded into the background noise of fireworks, and the only thing she was aware of was Remus’ lips on hers. The light fingertips against her jaw that sent shivers down her spine. She gasped against his mouth, and he drove the kiss deeper. It was maddening, the wrongness of it that somehow made it feel even more right. It was suffocating while breathing the freshest air in her entire life. It was a firework show of its own, illuminating a rainbow against the black night.

Next came the hangover and the nakedness.

And the pregnancy.

The rain falling against the windows mixed with the sound of Remus’ heartbeat, creating a symphony in Hermione’s head that she could listen to forever. When Remus spoke, it only added to the atmosphere of beautiful sounds surrounding her.

He pulled back slightly but kept his arms firmly wrapped around her. “Am I…” He didn’t meet her eyes. “Am I allowed to be happy about this?” He seemed genuinely fearful of her response.

Something broke inside of her; she couldn’t stop her tears then, even if she wanted to. She disentangled her arms from Remus and covered her face with her hands, sobs wracking her body. It was a flurry of emotions, the same flurry that had been surrounding her for the last four days. All of her confusion and fear and uncertainty hit her at full force in that moment, and there was nothing Hermione could do but cry.

And yet, there was something else there embedded in her anguish. A flicker of… relief. Remus’ words, _Am I allowed to be happy_ , had flipped a switch inside of her that she hadn’t known was there. She wasn’t suddenly full of joy for her pregnancy — that would have been some sort of miracle — but now she felt as if she _could_ be full of joy, someday. It was a possibility, something to work for. Remus said he was happy; why couldn’t the same be true for her?

It was then that Hermione realized what she most wanted; it wasn’t to keep her job, or to keep Remus from hating her, or even to make Remus love her. Hermione wanted to want her baby. And suddenly that felt possible. Hence, the tears.

Remus seemed to think Hermione’s reaction was for an opposite reason. “I–” he began, gingerly patting Hermione on the shoulder. His expression was full of the fear that Hermione had felt for four days straight. “Hermione, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Yes,” she interrupted, her voice coming out strangled and wet. She buried her face in Remus’ shoulder, her hands still covering her eyes. “Yes.”

Remus wrapped his arms around Hermione once more. He rested his head on her shoulder, and Hermione felt something wet on the back of her neck. She snaked her arms around his neck and held him close to her.

Her heart beat against his. Rain fell against the window.

It felt like an eternity passed just holding each other in their arms. When Remus spoke, his voice was muffled by Hermione’s hair. “So…” he said tentatively. “Where do we go from here?”

Hermione sighed and pulled back from the embrace. “I have no idea. I truly have no fucking clue. We have to go to HR, right? I mean, you are my superior. But what happens when two coworkers just bypass the dating stage entirely and jump straight to having a baby?”

Remus cracked a wry smile. “Yeah, I’ll bet that’s a first.” Hermione felt her anxiety creep back onto her face. “You’re not going to get fired, ‘Mione. I won’t allow it.” His voice was soft, and Hermione wanted to trust the kindness in his eyes. “You’re way too brilliant for the company to let go. I know it. Albus knows it. Everything will be okay.” He brushed his thumb over her jaw.

“Okay,” she murmured. “What about you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” he said humorously. “You’re gonna have my job someday, but I’m not leaving yet.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, secretly comforted by Remus’ joking nature. His quick wit had brought her out of many a slump. It also made for interesting email correspondence. She gazed into his eyes and smiled, suddenly feeling very lucky. How many people got to say that the father of their baby was as amazing a man as Remus Lupin?

“Oh,” Hermione said, remembering something. “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. The first doctor’s appointment. At noon. If you want to come, that would be… I mean, I know it’s short notice, so if you’re busy–”

“I’ll be there,” Remus interrupted. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He pressed a light kiss to her forehead, and Hermione couldn’t help her grin. “Do you wanna grab breakfast before? We can go to that hippie place you like.”

She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “It’s farm-to-table, and yes, I’d love to get breakfast.”

Hermione saw a lightbulb go off in Remus’ head, and he had that smile he got whenever he rearranged her color-coded filing cabinets. Warning lights went off in her head. “What?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Well,” Remus began. “Now that I’ve got you all knocked up and our lives will forever be intertwined, will you let me date you?”

She laughed and shook her head; of _course_ that’s what he was thinking about. Ever since they hooked up, Remus had not-so-subtly hinted at wanting to take Hermione out on a date. It was mostly playful, and he was respectful of the boundaries she set, but she could always tell that he wanted something more. Something real. “Was getting me pregnant all a part of some elaborate plan to finally get me to go out with you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he said, leaning in closer to her.

“Oh, is that right?” Hermione’s voice dropped as the distance between them decreased. His lips were so close that she could almost feel them graze over hers. All she needed to do was move forward a tiny bit…

“Mmm-hmm,” Remus said before finally closing the gap between them. He kissed her tenderly, unrushed, as if he knew it would be the first of thousands. Hermione really hoped it was.

Hermione pulled back after a moment, her eyes still shut. “Yes, I’ll go out with you.” Her words were soft, and she pressed another light kiss to Remus’ lips.

“Oh, hell yeah,” he said.

Hermione opened her eyes to a sea of green. He held her gaze while tracing lazy patterns across her back. A boyish smile broke out across his face, the smile that Hermione couldn’t help but mirror, even on her worst days. A sense of security bloomed in her chest, like she was exactly where she was meant to be. For just a split second, every ounce of uncertainty and fear fell away and Hermione knew, she just _knew_ :

Everything was going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of making this into a little miniseries or at least doing some kind of follow-up chapter - let me know if you'd be interested in that!


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